by C. A. Larmer
“I don’t actually know who it is,” she told her mother. “It’s early days. Oliver’s going to brief me tomorrow.”
“Oh, dear, well, I hope this one’s deadly dull and not an ounce of blood is shed.”
She had a point. With her last two clients murdered, Roxy’s life was beginning to resemble an episode of Murder, She Wrote. Some would call her cursed, but Roxy knew it wasn’t as unpredictable as you’d think. After all, when people write their life stories, hanging the family laundry out for all the world to see, someone is bound to get upset.
“In any case, it should keep you nice and busy,” her mother was saying. “I know you like to be busy. It’s the perfect distraction for you.”
“Mum, don’t even go there, okay?”
“Darling, it’s a fact. You’re a classic commitment-phobe. I read about you in Cosmo.”
“Cosmo, hey? That all-knowing source of spiritual sustenance. Seems a little downmarket for you. I would’ve thought you were more the Vogue magazine type.”
“Well, one has to read something while waiting for their hair to set.” Lorraine patted her neatly blow-waved, ivory blonde hairdo, managing to mess it up in the process. She wasn’t wearing her trademark black, velvet headband but she did have a set of pearls in her ears and a matching pearly coloured dress that, teamed with the hair, left her looking like a blob of whipped cream. Probably not the effect she was after, thought her daughter snidely.
“Honestly, I’m going to have to find a new stylist,” Lorraine was saying. “Scottie keeps me waiting far too long, even for him.” Her eyes darted across Roxy’s razor sharp, black bob. “Of course, it wouldn’t hurt you to pay him a visit. He can’t quite work miracles but he can come close.”
“I like my hair as it is, thanks.”
She sniffed. “Well, it’s hardly very friendly, is it?”
Roxy laughed. “Friendly? Now there’s one for the books. What exactly is ‘friendly’ hair, pray tell? Should I get Scottie to weave it into a door mat? Should he dye a big ‘Hello’ in my fringe?”
Lorraine smirked back at her daughter. “No need to be sarcastic, Roxanne. I’m just saying, your fringe practically covers your eyes, which is very unappealing. You have such beautiful green eyes. And as for the colour? Let’s face it, darling, black is so dreary. I don’t know why you insist on looking like a … What’s the word? Goth, I think it is.”
“They call it ‘Emo’ these days, and I’m nothing like one.”
“Well, whatever they call it, it doesn’t look nice. You should go lighter. You’d look really sweet and we all know how much men love blondes.”
“Ahh, another popular cliché. This is going to surprise the hell out of you, Mum, but appealing to men isn’t exactly my top priority.”
“You can honestly tell me you don’t want to settle down one day and have children? Are you saying I’m never going to get the chance to hold a grandchild in my lap?”
She was pouting now and Roxy felt like screaming. She couldn’t even picture a wriggly little kid on Lorraine’s bony lap. Besides, she’d been perfectly happy to keep her own child at a convenient distance when she was young, what on earth did she want with grandkids? Roxy glanced around eagerly searching out the waiter.
Where was the damn food?
“Oh, Mum, of course I hope to have kids one day. All I’m saying is that I’m into my career right now. I love my work, and men and kids are just not on my immediate agenda.”
“But you’re going to Max’s party, right?” The pouting had turned into a look of sheer panic.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Good! Well, if you won’t fix your hair, how about buying a sexy little frock? We can go shopping this afternoon if you like.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. I’m sure everyone’ll just be in jeans.”
Lorraine frowned. “Honestly, you young people have no idea how to dress yourselves, do you?”
“We’re not salad, Mum,” Roxy said, relieved to see the food arrive.
Over lunch, Roxy could tell something was on her mother’s mind, other than her listless love life, of course, and eventually she said, “Spit it out, Mum. What is it you want to say?”
Lorraine took a deep breath. “I was thinking it might be nice for Charlie to come along next time we catch up. What do you think?”’
I think I can feel a migraine coming on, Roxy thought, groaning internally this time. It was bad enough that she was subjected to her stuffy stepdad’s antics at the end of every month when she visited their North Shore house for dinner, but now he was inviting himself along on these mother/daughter catch ups? She’d had enough.
“Actually I think it’s a terrible idea. Can’t he go and play golf or something?”
There was a sulky silence and Roxy could feel her temper rising again. Her mother was an expert at sulking her way towards what she wanted but Roxy was adamant this time. She tried a different tack.
“Look, Mum, this is supposed to be our time, remember? Quality time together.”
“Yes, I know that, but, well, Charlie feels a little left out. He wants to get closer to you, darling, he wants to be the father you don’t have. Why won’t you let him in?”
Because he’s not my dad, she wanted to tell her. Because he’s nothing like my dad. She reflected then on the tiny, framed, black and white picture of her father that was sitting beside her bed. It showed a young man, his hair tussled, a smile wide across his face as he held a small girl in his arms. Her hair was perfect with a ribbon in place but her smile matched his. They looked as though they hadn’t a care in the world. One year later that man would be dead and the girl would never be quite so quick to smile again.
“Not going to happen, Mum. So let’s drop it. Okay?”
Another silence, a snippy, “fine” and then a sulky, “Well, will you at least come over for dinner, soon? He’d like to catch up with you. Says you need a decent feed.”
Roxy scowled at this but let it drop and promptly changed the subject.
Half an hour later, as she made her way home, Roxy wondered whether she would ever learn to tolerate Lorraine Jones. She loved her mother dearly, couldn’t help herself, but Lorraine was like an alien species most of the time, like someone from another planet. This brought the smile back to Roxy’s lips. It had reminded her: the Sunday papers were still waiting to be collected. Perhaps there were more details of the sci-fi writer’s untimely demise.
******
That evening, as Roxy slowly snipped away at the edges of the various newspaper articles on Seymour Silva, somebody else was also keenly devouring the news. He was surprised how little space it was getting. After all that effort, he had expected the front pages of both Sunday papers, but only one seemed to care. The other had hidden the article on page six and this irked him.
A famous writer had died, surely that was big news? If there had been more than one murder, say two or three … that would have made them sit up and take notice.
The thought sent a shiver down his spine, and something else, too.
The gem of a good idea.
Chapter 5
Roxy threw open her closet doors and stared pitifully at the contents inside. Nothing. Not a shred of inspiration reached out to entice her in. She glanced at her watch: 9:29 a.m. She had better hurry or she’d be late again. She had dawdled far too long on the Sunday papers last night, reading over every scintillating detail of Seymour Silva’s life which had been covered in both papers but most comprehensively by “crime reporter” David Lone in the Telegraph. She had forgotten he wrote for the Tele and was surprised he had managed to get this article together so quickly after his big film launch. Unlike her, he obviously had no trouble focusing with a hangover.
David’s article was spread over the entire page and read like a gripping yarn. (He was good at gripping yarns, that was obvious.) Born into a dirt-poor Dubbo family, Seymour Silva had lived, according to David, a fairly ordinary life until one fateful night
at the age of nineteen when he simply vanished. Missing without trace, his family had been frantic until he reappeared ten days later, naked, dehydrated and disoriented, insisting he’d had an extra-terrestrial experience. He claimed he’d been abducted by aliens.
The family sought psychological help, of course, but Seymour refused counselling and eventually disowned them, moving to Sydney where he began his incredible writing career. In the six years since his supposed abduction, Seymour had written five novels and, while always insisting they were not autobiographical, his own eerie past helped propel them to healthy sales for a young, and if truth be told, fairly average, Australian science-fiction writer.
It was all about the back story, of course, Roxy understood that. If he had just been an ordinary bloke from the ’burbs, writing extraordinary tales about ETs, his manuscripts might never have made it out of his hardrive. Thanks to his spooky past, and local success, Seymour’s future as a global entity was also looking on the up, or, at least, that’s how David portrayed it, and quoted Seymour’s new agent Amy Halloran to that effect.
Sadly for all, Seymour’s “incredible career” was now cut short, his body discovered early Saturday morning by a cleaning woman in his apartment in an inner-west suburb of Sydney. The police were yet to comment, but according to David, Seymour’s death was “highly suspicious” and there was blood splattered across his bedroom. He didn’t elaborate further yet it didn’t matter to Roxy. She was firmly hooked. This was going to make for some riveting reading in the weeks to come.
Enough of that! Shoving the coathangers to one side, she whipped each one across separately, hoping something, anything, would leap out at her. But zip. She sneered back at her wardrobe like a sulky child, reminding herself of her mother. Winter was much easier for dressing up, she decided. All you had to do was add a scarf or a jacket and old outfits were instantly renewed. There wasn’t much you could do with a summer frock that had been worn one too many times. Not that Oliver would care, or even notice for that matter. She finally settled on a black and white spotted blouse, flowing black skirt and thick red belt, then finished her makeup, scraped a comb through her hair, smoothing down her thick fringe in the process, slipped into some black ballet flats and headed out.
Oliver was in his usual spot, wedged behind the desk in his inner-city office, when she waltzed in, and Roxy didn’t wait for an invitation, simply sat down in the scrappy armchair in front of him and smiled.
“You better today?” she asked and he shrugged, scratching his stomach where it bulged out of a lairy, Hawaiian-print shirt.
There was a brown smudge down the front, probably the remnants of breakfast, a greasy kebab, a sloppy burger or something equally as nutritious. Oliver wasn’t what you’d call health-conscious and his expanding girth, not to mention grease-splattered clothing, were proof of that.
“Sure, the hangover’s gone and the cops haven’t called again,” he said. “I’m sailing on cloud nine. Let’s get straight to it, eh?” He dug about his messy desk for a file, located it and threw it towards her, spilling some of the contents as it went. “So, remember our hot-shot author David Lone?”
She laughed. “Well, I would if it wasn’t for the brain cells I managed to destroy at his premiere. That was quite a night. David’s been busy on the Seymour Silva case, I see.”
“Yep, that is his job when he’s not moonlighting as a celebrity. Anyway, he’s your man. We’ve been commissioned to write his life story.”
Roxy’s jaw dropped and for a second she was uncharacteristically speechless.
“The publisher wants a racy book looking at his background, how he came across the Supermodel murders, the ins and outs of the case, a bit about his love life, that sort of thing. Coffee?”
“Um, yeah, sure.” She was still processing it all as Oliver yelled out to his assistant.
“Shazza! You in yet?!”
There was a hoarse cough in the front room and then a loud, “Whatdaya want?”
“Two coffees, if it’s not too much to bloody ask. Roxy’s here.”
A mop of frizzy red hair appeared at the doorway followed by a skinny, middle-aged woman wearing an acid-wash skirt and a frilly, red blouse that dipped far too low across a flat, leathery chest.
“Hi, love, how are ya?”
Roxy waved hello. “Great, thanks, Sharon. How’s the Big Guy treating you?”
Sharon glanced across at Oliver and shrugged. “Like crap as usual. It’s milk and two, right?”
“Thanks, yes.” Sharon disappeared and Roxy turned to her agent. “Explain this to me, Oliver: why on earth does a hugely successful writer need another hugely unsuccessful writer to write his life story? It doesn’t make any sense.”
She held up David’s bulging file of press clippings and book reviews and waved it at him.
“Jesus, you’re a suspicious beast! You can never just say, ‘Thanks for the work, Oliver, I’d love to do it.’”
“I’m allowed to ask!”
He sighed. “Two reasons. The first is he’s right in the middle of his drug cheats book. Deadline is looming so he hasn’t got the time to do it himself, but we need to get the book out while he’s still big news. Second, it’s what the publisher prefers. Apparently it’s cooler that way, sells better, too. It’s gonna be like an unauthorised biography that’s, well, secretly authorised.” Roxy looked at him sideways and he cleared his throat. “We’re gonna market it as a bit of a tell-all. You know, the hidden story behind the famous writer and the famous book. The stuff you don’t know, that sort of thing.”
“And David Lone has approved all of this?”
“Yeah, loves the idea. Hell, if I recall rightly—and we did discuss it over one too many shots of tequila, I have to confess—it might even have been his bloody idea. We just all reckon it’ll sell better than an autobiography. It’s gonna be a bit steamy, a bit sexy.”
Roxy sat back in her chair considering the well-groomed man she had met at the film premiere and couldn’t quite equate the two. Sure, he was a little smarmy but he certainly didn’t seem like your average playboy lothario. Oliver took her silence as hesitation.
“Look, there’s good money in this for you. Half a year’s freelance salary, plus royalties, so it’s in all our interests that we make it as juicy as possible.”
“But is there anything ‘juicy’ to say?”
“Christ, yeah!” Oliver’s grin lopped to one side. “So you fell for his nice boy image, eh? David Lone is a bit of a party boy, big with the chicks. Well, especially since the book came out, and now with the film, he’s on the A-list. I’m sure I saw him at the end of the party smooching that new blonde soap star from Home and Away.”
“Sounds real A-list,” Roxy replied wryly as Sharon reappeared with the coffees.
The receptionist glanced at the file in Roxy’s hands. “Oooh, I love Davo,” she said with a wink. “Dirty great spunk, that one.”
“Thank you, Sharon, that’s very insightful. You can close the door on your way out,” Oliver said and she flipped him the bird as she did so.
Roxy sipped her coffee for a moment and had to admit the thought of spending more time with the handsome reporter was tempting. He was clearly an intriguing character, and it was good money after all. Still, the idea of writing something so trashy gave her pause for thought. Even Roxy Parker and her lowly bank account had their standards.
Oliver was one step ahead of her. “Look, Rox, I know you’re usually more high-brow than this, but it’s a good story and it needn’t be tacky if you write it right. We just want a gripping yarn about a gripping guy. Why don’t you get together with David and nut it out between you? See how it feels?”
“Well, it can’t hurt.”
“Blood oath! Plus it gives you a break from all that girlie crap you write about for those no-brainer chick rags.”
“Ahh, I think you mean all those probing social issues for women’s magazines,” she corrected him. “And you’re right. I could do with a bit of
variety about now. Okay, give me his number and I’ll give him a call.”
Oliver reached into his back pocket, pulled out a wallet and located one of David Lone’s business cards. He flung it towards her. “Actually, we’ve already set something up. Tonight at Piago’s, 8:00 p.m. His shout.”
Roxy glanced at the card and then raised an eyebrow at her agent. “How very presumptious of you both. So he’s expecting me then?”
“Tells me he’s looking forward to it. Hey, there might even be a romance in this for you if you play your cards right.”
She almost choked on her coffee, spilling a little down her blouse, and jumped up to swipe a tissue from the box on his desk.
“Jesus, Olie, cut it out,” she said, dabbing at the stain. “You sound like my mother.”
“I don’t think your mother’s thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’.”
Roxy scrunched up the tissue and lobbed it at her agent’s head while he continued chuckling away.
Chapter 6
Piago’s Ristoranté & Bar was as pretentious as it sounded, bursting with ageing executive types in creased Italian suits and obscenely young wannabe widows in designer frocks, and, hovering around them, a flurry of starched waiters who clearly found the whole world distasteful, their noses turned high. Roxy despised places like this but it didn’t exactly surprise her that David Lone had chosen it. It certainly befitted a man who was moving up in the world. He laughed when she suggested as much.
